


The Sharp Knife of a Short Life

by vivat



Category: Hyper Light Drifter
Genre: Body Image, Established Relationship, Fluff, More sweet than explicit, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-31
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-02-24 11:14:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13212582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivat/pseuds/vivat
Summary: Drifter’s body is wasted. Lean and sick and scarred. Unsightly would be the only correct word to use.Guardian looks at them as if he thinks they’re worth the love in his eyes.





	The Sharp Knife of a Short Life

Guardian very deliberately kisses a scar laid deep in Drifter’s collar, and they nearly jerk away. “You don’t have to do that.” Their voice comes out strained.

“I want to,” he says. And, murmured against their skin, “Can you believe me when I say that?”

They can. They do. They just don’t understand _why._ But they’re too afraid to ask, unwilling to ruin the mood over something that hardly ever matters to them besides, so when they answer, all they say is “Of course.”

Guardian isn’t done, though. His voice is as warm as his body nearly pressed against them. “I enjoy being with you,” he says, “like this. I like _you_.”

“You’re a tease,” Drifter says, and this time the strain in their voice has less to do with Guardian’s sentiment and more with the way his hands play at their waist, tucked under the hem of their shirt. His hold is infuriatingly light, sending the suggestion of touch down deep into them, which he _knows_ drives them crazy. Or he smiles like he knows.

“I can’t just want to look at my partner?” he asks guilelessly, though Drifter has their suspicions. 

The pleasant flush at being referred to as his _partner_ \-- again, no matter how many times, they never stop being reflexively surprised when it happens -- is almost enough drown out the bitter distaste in their mouth, and they ignore it best they can. “Reiterate: _tease._ ”

“If you insist,” Guardian says. He ducks his head back down to their collar again, and they huff as his lips once again press against the same spot on their skin. Not that it doesn’t feel nice. 

But- “I’ve decided I hate you now,” they say, because it’s the only thing they can think of.

Guardian apparently sees the opportunity to be sappy and takes it, like always. “Well, I love you. All of you,” he says between kisses. Drifter tries not to gasp when he presses one against their throat and fails miserably. They’re a little more successful in resisting the urge to kick him. “I love looking at you.”

His fingers play at their skin, trailing up toward their chest, over their ribs, and where they’d begun to melt at the feeling of it, they tense a little at their shirt beginning to ride up from the gesture, placing their hands over his arms. It’s nothing close to a restricting hold, but Guardian stops regardless. 

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Drifter says, not looking at him. There’s a moment where he must be studying them, before he leans back and away, and Drifter manages to turn their whine at the loss of contact into something more of a grumble.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Guardian says.

Drifter stops tugging the hem of their shirt back down to glare. “I’m an excellent liar.”

“With half your face covered,” he returns, and then more gently, “You can be honest with me.”

“I know,” Drifter bites. It’d be easier if they could say these things instead of just think them; how do they tell him that being looked at without at least one layer between them and the rest of the world makes inadequacy rise in their throat like bile; that every scar feels like a condemnation; that they’ve never had to worry about this sort of thing before and now they’re not sure how to stop. It’s humiliating. They wish they could stop. 

They take Guardian’s hand instead. He lets them, making no protest as they turn it over, examining; there’s a familiar patch of discolored skin stretching up his forearm that they’ve idly traced before, but they do so with purpose now. This type of mark could have only been left by a burn, and Drifter wonders not for the first time what Guardian had been doing without his gloves, to be hurt in such a way. Maybe that’s why he wears them now.

“I’m not used to this,” Drifter finally admits. “Being- _seen._ ” They’re careful to push a degree of emphasis on the word. They’re used to being seen, certainly -- have been looked at, stared at, gawked at more times than they could count -- but not like this. Ogled. _Appreciated._ They only continue when Guardian nods. “It’s new. And... uncomfortable.”

Guardian places his other hand over theirs, stilling their restless fingers. The concern in his voice is impossible to miss. “Have I been pushing you?”

“No,” Drifter promises. “I just. I wasn’t sure, how to bring it up.” Didn’t really want to. It goes unsaid, for all that the implication hangs between them for more than a few moments.

When he speaks again, Guardian’s voice is subdued. “I can imagine what it’s like.”

That makes Drifter’s eyebrows quirk up. “You can?”

Their tone must betray more disbelief than they feel, because there’s something else in the quirk of Guardian’s small smile. “To be embarrassed? Yes. And overwhelmed. Not being able to hide every scar and sign of sickness behind your gear. It’s not like drifters are known for our _revealing dress._ ” That gets something like a snort from Drifter’s end, and Guardian’s smile warms a little. “So, yes, I can imagine what it’s like to be self-conscious about it. To... to look at the scars you could have avoided if you’d just been quicker or stronger or more focused. Finding yourself lacking. Wondering, how could you ever hope to match up? How can you protect the ones you love like this?”

Drifter watches as his hand slides away from theirs to cover the glaring mark he’d moments earlier so willingly displayed, and their eyebrows fall from their climb to knit together. “I’m not sure ‘imagine’ was the right word to use,” they murmur.

“...I wasn’t trying to make that about myself.”

“But it was,” Drifter says, not unkindly.

It’s Guardian’s turn to grumble, though he doesn’t deny it. “What I’m trying to say is, if I’d known, I wouldn’t have been so...”

“Brazen?” Drifter deadpans. “Shameless? Voyeuristic?”

“Well, I’d probably dial back the intensity of the adjectives there,” Guardian says, “but yes.”

Drifter lifts up Guardian’s hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles. “You’re very kind,” they say, though the way the words fall it sounds more like an accusation. Something of an inside joke between them, at this point. “And I love as much of you as you’ll allow.”

The simple phrase does funny things to Guardian’s expression, and Drifter suspects that he places his hand on their cheek and presses their foreheads together largely so they can’t see his face. Not that that keeps _Drifter_ from grinning like a fool when he says, “You know I can never deny you anything.”

“Like patching up my cloak,” Drifter says.

“Like patching up your cloak,” he agrees. 

“And kissing me some more?”

There’s a smile in it from both sides when he obliges. Drifter rests their hands on Guardian’s waist, tugging him closer, humming in satisfaction as they do. It’s selfish of them to be grateful they’re not alone in this, they think. At least as selfish as being grateful for Guardian being theirs in the first place. 

They can live with that.


End file.
